The Reichenbach Moments
by cherryice123
Summary: A few different POVs from the moment of the Fall to the funeral.


I am afraid.

I have never experienced such utter fear. I see John, staring at me, watching me from down there.

I'm crying. It hurts. I don't want him to be hurt. So I must lie.

I hope he can forgive me if I com back. When I come back.

The words pour out of my mouth nearly as fast as the tears do.

I know it is unwise to cry- crying will not stop Moriarty's death. But I still mourn.

I drop the phone, which rolls over by Jim's dead body. I hear John yell my name.

My last thought before I fall:

_Please forgive me, John. I will be back._

* * *

He fell. I watched him fall.

Downwards, hitting the pavement. Breaking. He can't break. He can't fall.

But he did.

I ran. I had to reach him. I could save him. I didn't know how, but it was the only thing keeping me going.

Something hits me. I collapse- not nearly as bad as he did. The world spins around me. I get up, ears buzzing. I have to get to him.

People crowd around him, recognizing him from the papers. I hear my own feeble cries, telling them to move.

They try to stop me; I grab his wrist. I swear, I moan. There is no pulse. No pulse. No bloody pulse.

They turn him around. I didn't want to look, but my eyes couldn't turn away. His eyes, void of that spark; that damn annoying, beautiful spark. His lips, forever unmoving; no more complaints about my habits, no more brilliant deductions.

He is broken.

I am broken.

Sherlock Holmes is not a fraud. He is dead.

He is nothing. He is gone.

* * *

I watched him, opening his mouth, reliving the scenes, trying to talk. I take notes. I can understand his pain at a scientific level, but at a psychological level? It's too deep.

He's too damaged.

I advise him to say what he couldn't. I can imagine it, but he cannot say it. I urge him on, telling him it will help.

He gets up and walks out. I know this will be the last time I will see him in my office.

He's gone.

They both are.

* * *

He sat at his armchair, staring at the window. Perhaps he is imagining that violin playing. Though he was a horrid fraud, I still believed that his magnificent violin skills were real.

I can't believe he was a fraud. For appearance's sake, for sanity's sake I do, but deep down I know he was real. I can't bring myself to say it.

I try to get John to eat something before he leaves the flat, to give his statement to the police.

I know the thought if Sherlock is painful to him, but I keep him at it, guiding him out the door, and into the cab. I baby him, hiding my own grief, and wave him off. I save the tears for the funeral tomorrow.

He must heal.

We all must.

* * *

When he entered, I saw the sadness in his eyes. I expected him to be furious, especially at me, for what I suggested.

But the cold glare is much worse. I want him to scream, to yell, to show rage. But instead, he shows quiet acceptance.

He's lost a battle. Not against me, though I am the reluctant winner in that one.

He lost a battle in which there is no victor. The battle of life and death.

He looks at me, and I look back, trying to express my sympathy.

But he shakes his head at me. A slow, sorrowful shake.

And it tears at my soul.

I wish I had been wrong.

* * *

He saunters into my office, with a blank face.

I ask him to account the events involving the Fall.

It's our code name. Neither of us can call it what it really is.

I've already heard the event multiple times, during our drunk ramblings. But hearing it now, in a straight tone, with the hint if sadness. My heart breaks.

Nice to know I still have one.

When he is done, he gets up, and starts to leave.

I call after him. I tell him that I, too, believe Sherlock wasn't a fraud.

John turns around, tears in his eyes. He nods. I know what he's trying to say: Thanks, Greg.

I know he means it.

* * *

They need my story, too. Since I'm the one who discovered Richard Brooks.

I tell people I wholeheartedly believe that the man was a cheat. But when I saw John, my resolve crumbled.

I knew he recognizes me, and I him. I stood tall. But the way he looked made me want to cry.

I could feel the sorrow in the air. I turn away, not wanting to catch his eye.

I feel regret.

Maybe Sherlock wasn't so bad after all. He surely was loved.

* * *

When John left, I let out an audible sigh of relief, and glance at Sally, who tried not to look at me.

I immerse myself in work, viewing crime scene photos. But it is all a distraction from my feelings.

Though he constantly irritated me, I did miss the stupid git.

I would never hear a taunt, an unwanted criticism, anything negative. The feeling is bittersweet.

Sweet at crime scenes.

Bitter when I saw John.

* * *

The day of the funeral. Only a few people arrived: myself, John, Sherlock's brother and assistant, Lestrade (who I am now very close to), and Mrs. Hudson.

I know Sherlock is watching the whole ceremony in the distance. I told him he shouldn't. He couldn't resist.

I loom at John, with his expressionless mask.

The guilt in me almost bursts. I fight back tears. I want to admit to everything. But I had promised not to.

Greg put his arm around me, walking me back to his car. I bury myself in his chest.

I can't handle it.

* * *

In the distance, I watch them slowly gather and disassemble at Sherlock's grave. I myself must leave, but I owed it to him, to at least watch his funeral.

Fake for for us, real for them. The ones left behind.

I look at John and the elder Holmes. Only John is unaware Sherlock saved me.

Mycroft only found out after I found Sherlock, at the private hospital.

I know Sherlock is watching, though John can't see him. I know he is watching, waiting, _feeling_.

The only question is, _why didn't he tell him?_

* * *

I type on my Blackberry, only to look up to make sure my boss is still beside me. We walk to the newly made grave, where only John Watson and his landlady are.

Mr. Holmes tries to talk to the doctor, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder, which the smaller man immediately brushes off.

I know my boss is quite taken aback by the gesture, but continues to talk, until John is yelling at him, his quiet rage evolving into rambunctious fury.

Then he does the unthinkable: He punches the British Government.

* * *

We rush away from the site, my hand in my nose, trying to hold the blood, as Anthea conjures up some tissues.

Then did she notice my sly smile. I saw her open her mouth, as to ask why, but promptly close it, knowing the answer.

I say it anyway. I deserved it.

In my time in MI6, I had been badly injured multiple times. But only this time had I ever thought I deserved it.

I should have told John. He should have told John.

He deserved the truth. For all he's done, he deserved it.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson has went in ahead, leaving me alone with my thoughts. And Sherlock's grave. Sometimes he felt they were one and the same.

Before I could stop myself, everything I wanted to say spilled out of me, even the part where I wanted Sherlock to be alive.

Because there was one thing I wanted to say, and I regretted never doing so: telling Sherlock how I truly felt.

I, John Watson, loved Sherlock Holmes.

And I was never going to be able to say it.

I plead to the universe, please let Sherlock be alive.

_I need him. More than anything._

* * *

I watch as John dragged his feet, slowly leaving.

Pain stabs my heart. I want to rush up to him, to hold him, to be with him.

But if I did, he would be in danger.

Curse Moriarty. Damn him to hell.

I turn around, returning to my hideout, strengthening my resolve.

I had one last favor to as of Mycroft before I had to for my flight.

For him to give John a letter. To keep him going.

To let him know I was returning. To let him know I loved him too.


End file.
